


Red Wine

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Genderqueer Character, Other, Trans!Aramis, Trans!Musketeer(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 04:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2415767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I used to think I was cross-dressing,” Aramis says, reaching over to steal one of Porthos’ chips, “before I realised I don’t want to cross anything. I want to tear it down with my bare hands, and stamp it into the dust.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“You know it doesn’t matter to me, right?” Porthos asks mostly rhetorically, through a mouthful of potato.</i>
</p><p><i>“Fuck you. It matters to </i>me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sundayschild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sundayschild/gifts).



Aramis in lace is a sight to see, Porthos decides, that first time: intricate wine-coloured webbing cupping slim, sharp hips; a gorgeous arse that fits into the cradle of Porthos’ hands like it was made for them; the wet spot blooming against the silk that Porthos reverently touches his tongue to, rewarded for his daring when Aramis bucks up against him with a moan.

He would never have imagined liking this. He could never have imagined someone like h- like _them_ , Porthos reminds himself hastily.

The last thing he wants is to fuck it up over something small, so he practices in his mind: it’s _their_ unruly hair between his thighs, _their_ bared throat, _their_ nose and cheek nuzzling along his cock like it’s a new favourite toy. Their shaved legs, smooth under his exploring hands. Their knickers Porthos hooks his thumbs into the waistband of, ready to slide slowly down.

They smell of weed and incense, and leave a smattering of matching wine-coloured lipstick kisses all over Porthos’ thighs, and he closes his eyes in the shower afterwards so he doesn’t have to watch as he washes them all away.

* * *

 

“What do you want from the future?” Porthos asks one evening, when they’re sat on his desk, leaning half-out of his window with the light off, pretending this is a Parisian roof terrace under the stars and not Clapham at one in the morning, their faces lit with a sodium glow, and the constant sound of traffic off the main road.

He isn’t expecting Aramis to slam the wine bottle down on the sill between them – harder than they meant to, Porthos thinks, but he can’t be sure. “What is a _future_ , for people like me?” Aramis demands, suddenly riled. “Should I sit in an office all day wearing a suit, listening to people call me _Mr_?”

“I have no idea,” Porthos replies honestly. He doesn’t _care_ exactly, though it still hurts; growing up in care means he’s no stranger to misplaced anger, and he’s fast getting the idea that Aramis is much more likely to answer a question with another question than with anything that can be used to pin them down.

Aramis takes off their glasses, rubs at something on one lens with their cuff, puts them back on. “I spent my childhood wanting to be in the army. Or a priest, can you believe it.” A bitter little laugh. “Two institutions that wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with me.”

 _Institutions never know what the fuck to do with anyone_ , Porthos thinks.

Aloud, he echoes, “A priest?”

“Catholic. Down to my bones, unfortunately.” Aramis reaches for the bottle again. “I’d say I’d be a creative type, but that probably requires some sort of talent. I might stay pulling pints. I don’t care, if it means I can dress the way I want.” They shift, curling their legs up beneath them. “What about you, then?”

One thing they both have in common, Porthos decides, is an apparent belief in honesty.

“Love.”

Aramis doesn’t reply, but their free hand finds his beneath the blanket.

* * *

 

“I used to think I was cross-dressing,” Aramis says, reaching over to steal one of Porthos’ chips, “before I realised I don’t want to _cross_ anything. I want to tear it down with my bare hands, and stamp it into the dust.”

“You know it doesn’t matter to me, right?” Porthos asks mostly rhetorically, through a mouthful of potato.

“Fuck you. It matters to _me._ ”

For the first time, Aramis actually turns away instead of staring him down; and _I’ve hurt them_ , Porthos realises immediately.

Of course it must _matter_ , even he realises that; and he’s only had a few short weeks to think about what it must mean to be so fundamentally different to what’s expected from you, rather than half a lifetime.

He swallows, and tries to work out what he can say to make it in any way better.

“I’m sorry,” he manages in the end. “What I should have said was… I like who you are.”

“Prove it.” Aramis raises an eyebrow. “Ask me some of the things you’ve never dared ask.”

“Alright. So… what is your gender?”

Aramis shrugs. “Genderqueer. Femme androgynous. Glitter and cheap alcohol disaster. Lace-fetishist anomaly not yet understood by science. I don’t know.”

Porthos frowns. “You’re not a disaster.”

They look – put-out. Unnerved, perhaps, and Porthos wonders if he was supposed to pick up on that part at all. “No, I’m… a bullet. Maybe a cannonball. Hurtling through life, making everyone duck for cover. Why, what would you say I am?”

Porthos can’t help thinking back to that first night, the burgundy kisses on his thighs that he half-wanted to be permanent even then. The way they both came up tasting of red wine and each other’s spunk, and kissed each other familiar.

“Intoxicating.”

Aramis grins suddenly. “There are worse genders to be.”

They’re both silent for a few moments, passing the bottle back and forth, before Porthos asks, “Why ‘Aramis’?”

“I got it from a book. I’m not sure I even cared, I just needed something that didn’t hurt every time I heard it.”

Outside, a clatter like bins being knocked over. A man’s voice in the street, yelling – or at least Porthos assumes it’s a man, based on the timbre of the voice.

He’s starting to realise just how many assumptions he makes; like his thoughts are clothes he’s turning inside-out for the first time, discovering their seams.

“I feel like I’m out of my depth with you.”

Porthos makes himself say it, because he thinks he’s right in thinking that Aramis likes to hear these things. Would rather hear them than have Porthos pretend he’s alright and everything’s peachy, anyway.

“Good. I don’t want to make people _comfortable._ ”

 _I do,_ Porthos thinks.

He holds out his hand for the bottle.

* * *

 

Aramis drops their shoulders and stretches their arms back behind them, gripping Porthos’ thighs as they drop their head back for a moment, face raised to the ceiling, baring the long line of their throat.

Porthos wants nothing more in this moment than to bite down there, but forces himself to be patient. He knows Aramis likes it when he takes his time; and so settles for running his fingers down their chest, making sure to stroke over their nipples, before reaching the line of the corset where it digs into their ribs, curling his fingers to scratch down the burgundy silk so Aramis will feel it against their skin.

Aramis’ hands come to rest over Porthos’, pressing briefly. “I’m trying to decide if this is armour or not.”

Porthos obediently stills his hands, rapping his knuckles lightly against the curve of the boning at Aramis’ waist to illustrate. “Feels like armour to me.”

Aramis rolls their eyes; though the annoyance isn’t genuine, Porthos decides pretty quickly. “I mean it, though.”

 _Your defensiveness is your armour,_ Porthos thinks, but he doesn’t want to spoil the moment. “What are you thinking when you put it on?” he asks instead.

“It depends.” Aramis pauses for a moment, entwining their fingers with Porthos’, considering. “If I want to fuck, I’m thinking pretty, sensuous. I like feeling breathless when I come. But if I’m tired and resentful and late for work, and I’m putting on knickers under my jeans then I’m, yeah. It’s something of me that’s who I am, that I can carry with me. Who I _really_ am.”

“That’s – maybe a token, of sorts.” Porthos fumbles for a moment for a better description, comes up short. “I’m not sure what to call it. But I know what you mean.”

“‘Token’ works.” Aramis rolls their hips consideringly against Porthos – and he groans in surprise, feeling half-drunk on the sudden spike of arousal. “But let’s not get distracted.”

“You started it,” Porthos points out, allowing his hands to drift south, fingering the wide band of lace on Aramis’ upper thigh. Snapping their suspender appreciatively against their skin just where it emerges from beneath the lace of their knickers.

“I’m finishing it,” Aramis counters; and if that’s an ending, then it’s the movement of Porthos’ fingers against wine-red satin that’s the start of something new. 

* * *

 

 _This is Aramis in their element_ , Porthos thinks, well into the night: skin sheened with sweat and glitter, cycling every colour of the rainbow under the lights of the dance floor, in a painted-on T-shirt and leather trousers nothing short of sinful; body rolling against Porthos’ in sinuous movements, Porthos’ hands on their hips as he just tries to cling on for the ride.

“Shit white or shit red?” he asks, in Aramis’ ear.

“Red. Shit white’s worse than shit red.” Aramis spins in his arms with the enthusiasm of the drunk, Porthos’ hands stopping their hips when they threaten to turn too far. “Wait a minute.”

One hand snakes around into Porthos’ curls, dragging him into a filthy kiss that’s all tongues and Aramis nipping at his lower lip, still moving with the music throughout. The other hand slips into Porthos’ back pocket, cupping his arse and guiding him along with the beat, into Aramis’ rhythm.

When he’s finally allowed up for air, Porthos’ eye is caught by a movement over Aramis’ shoulder, sees two blonde girls looking their way. One of them whispers something; the other giggles.

“Got an audience, have we?” Aramis is turning in his arms, staring the girls down quite shamelessly, until they look hurriedly away. “Well, I really don’t know what they expected in a _gay bar_. I’d say we could offer them some new experiences, but that’s my only rule. No straight people.”

Porthos is silent for a moment, considering; taking in the short skirts, the heights of their stiletto heels, the bottle and two glasses on the table before them.

“Not my type anyway,” he decides, unable to resist the grin creeping over his face. “White wine.”

Aramis’ peals of laughter ring out as they lean their head against Porthos’ shoulder, silently shaking, drunk as much on the music and the movement as on anything that comes in a glass.

When the next song that comes on is something slow, Porthos holds them there against him with one hand as he brings the other to Aramis’ waist, feeling his way into the beat.

This rhythm, he knows.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic]Red Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2426303) by [readbyjela (jelazakazone)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jelazakazone/pseuds/readbyjela)




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